


Path to Paradise

by aladyinbooks



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Antichrist, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Earn Your Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Alteration, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Reluctant Consort, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aladyinbooks/pseuds/aladyinbooks
Summary: Dan shivers, can't help himself. Dumb, animal fear, and he wants to bare his throat to it. “What are you – ”“I promised,” Hess whispers. “I promised. But just this, alright? It'll be like it never happened.” He slides a step nearer, the pressure of his fingers hard and greedy. “It won't matter.”After the apocalypse doesn't quite happen, Daniel Waters is just trying to return to his nice, quiet life. What he gets instead is a new neighbour. Hess is friendly, charming and working with demons. He's also strangely familiar.There are gaps in Dan's memory, but that doesn't seem to matter. They say the devil always looks after his own, and apparently?Well, apparently Dan belongs to the devil.
Relationships: Daniel Waters/Hespherus Jones, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 342
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: I've tagged this fic as 'dubious consent', but your mileage on this may vary. There is memory alteration and emotional manipulation in here as well, so please be careful if this kind of fic is triggering for you. Stay safe. <3

_The path to paradise begins in Hell._   
**\- Dante Alighieri**

Hess moves in on a Friday.

Dan is working nights, and he doesn't particularly want to be woken up at ten o'clock in the morning. But the moving van's brakes sound like the creak of crypt doors; the movers apparently can't decide if they're in the middle of a boxing match or a drunk office party, and his fucking window is open.

Which will teach him to be so bloody optimistic about leaving it open in the middle of sodding January.

He groans and buries his face in his pillow for a long moment. Idly he wonders if he could just suffocate himself. At least then he'd have peace and quiet.

But he has to be up in six hours, and he has to be on duty by seven, which means there is no chance in hell of him getting back to sleep now. Not with the sun shining, the birds screeching at one another, and his new neighbour's entourage apparently re-staging the Battle of Hastings in the middle of the street.

“Fuck,” he says, muffled, and then rolls over and out of bed.

He stomps to the window, twitches the curtain aside, and glares at the group of people gathered below. There's a woman standing in the middle of a hoard of people. She's apparently directing traffic, blonde hair gleaming in the winter sunlight as she stabs a finger in the direction of the house. The minions she's ordering about scurry in all directions, scattering like a flock of startled hens, and Dan snorts to himself.

“Gonna be fun,” he mumbles, and wanders downstairs to put the kettle on.

He feels more human after some tea and toast. He spends half an hour sitting at his kitchen table, bare toes curled on the linoleum as he starts to gather himself together for the day.

Last night had been brutal, because it may have been a Thursday, but it was also apparently payday for half the idiots in central London. Rather than doing the decent thing and going shopping, people had taken to the clubs and pubs. Busy had been an understatement and, lucky him, Soho was in his neck of the woods.

Absently he rubs a bruise on his arm from an overenthusiastic city boy, who'd been far too eager to fight the establishment. He digs a thumb into the bruise for a moment, hums at the burn of it and settles back with a sigh. An interesting arrest, but not the best one of the night. That had gone to Sela, who'd collared three demons, a drug dealer and a lawyer. All in the same room. All as high as fucking kites.

(And hadn't that been a time and a half, having to wrangle three demons into a cell circled with holy silver, because damn they had been having too much fun.)

Dan scrubs a hand across his face and gets up from the table with a groan. Outside the noise hasn't abated; he can hear it through the front door. He briefly considers trying to go back to bed, but honestly at this point it's a lost cause.

Which means if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

He pulls on some jeans and shuffles through his collection of clean cups, until he thinks he has one for everybody outside. There's enough teabags and coffee to keep everyone happy, and he throws in the packet of Hobnobs he'd been saving for a special occasion as well. Kettle boiled, he shoves it all on a tray, pulls a t-shirt over his head and makes his way carefully outside.

The first thing that happens is he realises he forgot to put any bloody shoes on.

The second thing that happens is Mrs Palgrave from next-door-but-one grabs his arm.

“Dan,” she hisses excitedly, “have you seen who's moving in?”

Dan shrugs, trying not to drop the tray and upend scalding water all over Mrs Palgrave, himself and the sad looking shrub he's got surviving by the front door. “Looks like Mr West's niece finally sold the house then, huh?”

Mrs Palgrave shuffles closer, oblivious to the mortal danger of cups of tea and bare feet. “It's some of Them,” she says, and even Dan can hear the emphasis. “They've bought Mr West's house and they're turning into some kind of – of – ” 

She is, Dan realises, thoroughly enjoying being scandalised. Miranda Palgrave isn't an unkind person; she's not particularly prejudiced or malicious, but she loves a good bit of gossip. Something like a pack of demons moving in next door is likely to keep her going for years. Dan quietly resigns himself to spending the next couple of months running interference between both groups. 

He shuffles his feet, which are slowly going numb. “I'm sure it'll be fine,” he says as diplomatically as possible. 

“It's a very different sort to the usual people we have living here,” Mrs Palgrave says. Her voice must not be quiet enough, because Dan spots a blonde head turning to look in their direction.

He tightens his grip on the tray. “Mrs P, it'll be – ” 

“We're not planning to sacrifice all the neighbours in demonic rituals, you know,” an icy voice says, cutting right over the top of him. “Astonishingly, we have standards.”

Mrs Palgrave's hands flutter for a moment, distressed. “Oh, I never meant – that is, I – ” 

The blonde is standing in front of them. Dan always forgets how fast demons can move, and God, she must have been over here at lightning speed. He watches the way she raises an eyebrow at Mrs Palgrave's stuttering, and wonders why, of all things, she is taking exception to a nosy neighbour.

“But you are making a lot of noise first thing on a Thursday morning,” he says, and smiles to show he doesn't mean it. He raises the tray a little. “Welcome to the neighbourhood. Tea?”

“No,” she says scornfully, then hesitates. “Are those...Hobnobs?”

Dan shrugs. “Fresh out of the cupboard.”

Her eyes are white, blank and lifeless, but Dan gets the impression as she turns her gaze on him, that he's being examined from head to foot.

“What do you want?” she asks suspiciously.

He blinks. “Sorry, I – what?”

“For the Hobnobs. What do you want in return?”

It is only when Mrs Palgrave makes a soft sound of disapproval, that he realises his jaw has dropped. “For some Hobnobs?”

She snaps her fingers impatiently. “People don't offer something for nothing. Especially not to creatures like us. So. Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Dan says. “Absolutely nothing.”

She narrows her eyes. “Liar.”

Dan is reasonable; he's patient because he has to be. But he's also not at work right now, and he's not being paid to stand around and take this nonsense. “Listen,” he says politely. “I don't know what you think you're implying, or what the big deal is, but lady I've got to tell you, these are Hobnobs. Not my first born, not my soul, they're bloody biscuits. With tea. Which I brought out here to welcome you all to the neighbourhood. So if you want them, have at it. If you don't, I'll be offering them to everyone else anyway.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Palgrave says, wringing her hands. “Oh dear. Daniel, I don't think – ” 

The demon throws back her head and roars with laughter. “This is perfect!” she says, as Dan frowns at the change. “This is too, too perfect. Hess! Get your arse over here and have a biscuit!”

There is a flurry of movement, and a man lopes across the lawn towards them. He's tall, broad-shouldered and casual in a way Dan's not used to seeing. Not any more. He's wearing a t-shirt with a faded logo on it, jeans that are frayed enough to be well-loved, and a wide, cheerful smile that is enough to make Dan forget his frozen feet.

“Abi!” Apparently-Hess says. “What's going on?”

“Tea,” the demon says gleefully, and clearly there's some kind of joke Dan's not getting here. “Tea and biscuits.”

Next to Dan, Mrs Palgrave makes a soft little “Oh!” that probably has everything to do with the way the newcomer is smiling at her, and nothing, Dan thinks sternly to himself, to do with the gorgeous length of his fingers as he shakes her hand.

“Hi,” he says cheerfully. “I'm Hess. I'm going to be moving into number thirteen.”

“Miranda,” Mrs Palgrave says faintly, which is really not fair, because it took Dan nearly ten months to get a first name out of her, and even now he rarely uses it. “I'm at number twelve.”

“And this,” the demon says gleefully, pointing at Dan, “is your next door neighbour.”

“Oh,” Hess says, looking at Daniel. “ _Oh_! Hi! I...” he blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Dan says. He gives the tray an awkward little jiggle in lieu of a handshake, then promptly feels like an idiot. “I'm Daniel. Dan.” He clears his throat.

“Hess,” Hess says again. He startles and gives himself a shake, as though dismissing some unwanted thought. Next to him the demon coughs pointedly. “Um, this is Abi.”

“Hello,” Abi says, amused. “We have already spoken, but it's nice when introductions are made properly, don't you think?” She turns to Hess, and Dan could swear she widens her eyes meaningfully. “Dan was just offering us all a cup of tea, and some biscuits.”

“He was?” Hess says, then, “You were?”

Dan hefts the tray again. His feet are completely numb now, and he feels like he's missed something really bloody important. What, he has no idea. “To say hi. Welcome you all to the road. You know.”

“He's giving them out _freely_ ,” Abi says, as though imparting some great secret. “He doesn't want anything.”

“Well that's nice,” Hess says. He rubs a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck and ducks his head, smiling at Dan through his fringe. It looks a little like he's trying to make himself appear smaller. Given his size, it doesn't work. “Not many people would do that.” He and Abi exchange looks.

Hess has brown eyes, Dan realises, and an absolutely human smile. He's also a little taller than Dan, which is surprising, and looks like he'd probably hold his own if it came to a pub fight.

It's not entirely unheard of for a demon and a human to shack up together. Certainly it's more common than it was two years ago, when everything happened. As Dan watches the way Hess and Abi communicate without saying a word, he gets the uncomfortable feeling he's wandered into the middle of an old, well worn argument. The kind married couples have.

“So,” he says, and they both look at him. “what made you both decide to move to Telmsford?”

“Good transport links,” Hess says immediately. “Not that far from London, only half hour from Heathrow. It's useful for, er, work.”

“I'm not moving,” Abi says, and wrinkles her nose. “This isn't my kind of thing.”

“Oh, too much grass?”

She grins, shark-like. For a moment her features flicker, and something much more vulpine peers out from behind the mask of humanity. “Not enough sin.”

“But don't you want to – I mean, won't you miss Hess?”

She stares at him blankly. Hess takes one of the mugs of tea and buries his nose in it. Dan's starting to suspect he's hiding a smile. “No, why would I?”

“Because he's – ” 

“A pain in the arse,” she says, and steps heavily onto Hess's feet, apparently by accident. Hess chokes on the tea. “And a very poor boss.”

“You work for him?” Dan asks, and tries not to look at the way Hess is wiping spilt tea off of his chin. “What do you both do?”

For a long moment she stares at him. “What do we – ” She frowns. “Acquisitions,” she says at last. “We work in acquisitions and...”

“Liquidating assets,” Hess says smoothly. He smiles when Dan looks at him. “It's a pretty profitable business right now.”

“Right,” Dan says. “Assets.” They're obviously lying, and now is really not the time to get into it, but he spares a brief moment to hope that the mob haven't moved in next door to him. It could make neighbourhood relations pretty unbearable, if he has to arrest his new neighbour.

“What about you?” Abi asks. “What do you do?” Absently, without commenting, she takes the tray from his hands. He lets her, because he was bringing it out for everyone. He hopes he gets his cups back.

“I work in the Met,” he says, and watches as she stiffens.

“'The Met' as in 'the Metropolitan Police'?” she asks, and yeah, given her reaction Dan's really starting to worry there's something shady going on. “You're a Police Officer?” The way she says it, the audible capitalisation, has Mrs Palgrave stiffening next to Dan.

“He's a very good officer,” she says sternly, and Dan is surprised at the steel in her voice

Abi shrugs. “I never said otherwise.” The look on her face slips sideways again, edging towards sly. “A good man and a good Officer of the Law. My word. A righteous man indeed.”

“Abi,” Hess says softly, “that's enough.”

He is watching her intently, and for a moment she holds his gaze. Then she drops her head to look at the tray in her hand and sighs. “I'll take this over to the boys,” she says almost reluctantly. 

Hess nods, more a jerk of the head than a real agreement. “Good.”

All three of them watch her go, striding across the front lawn in her heels. She never, Dan notices, gets stuck once in spite of the January mud.

“She listens to you?” Mrs Palgrave asks tentatively, as they watch Abi shove the tray into the nearest pair of spare hands and begin barking orders again.

“I'm her boss,” Hess says, and he doesn't quite sound like he's joking. “She has to.”

*

Trafalgar Square on a Friday night is hell on earth.

Well, not literally hell on earth. Dan's lived through that, and he doesn't really want to repeat that experience, thank you very much.

But still.

There are days when he questions if he chose the right career path. If he did the sane thing in going back to this, after the apocalypse was cancelled. But there's always going to be a need for the law, and humans are always going to be arseholes, and honestly he enjoys his job.

Well, most of the time.

“Fuck you!” the man he and Gil have just fished out of the fountain is screaming. “Fuck you! You're on their side? After all the fucking shit they've done?” He's dripping wet, furious and drunk.

“You need to calm down,” Dan says. “Are you injured?”

“No I'm not fucking injured!” the bloke bellows. “You should have let me finish the fucking job!” Next to Dan, the demon who was also pulled out of the fountain flinches. He spits blood on the floor, black and sulphuric, and stuffs a sleeve under his nose to stem the flow.

Dan takes a deep breath, because there's only one way this is going to go. “I'm arresting you under Section Forty Seven of the Offences Against the Person Act. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” The words are rote by now, almost meaningless. He's said them so many times recently he's probably been dreaming of them.

“Why aren't you arresting that?” The man jabs a vicious finger in the direction of the demon, who flinches again. “That thing's killed hundreds of fucking people. It's the criminal, not me.”

“You don't know that,” Dan says sternly, “and previous convictions are not up for debate. You were witnessed assaulting a being designated a sentient person under the act, and will now be taken in for questioning.”

The man spits at his feet. “You're a fucking disgrace,” he sneers. “Call yourself a – ” 

“Alright sunshine,” Dan says, “that's enough.” He jerks his head at Gil, who slaps the cuffs on the drunk with perhaps a little more force than is necessary. “My colleague is going to take you down the nick and get a statement from you. We'll sort paperwork out from there and decide if we're going to charge you, alright?”

“Alright?” the man says. “ _Alright?_ You're scum. You're fucking – ”

Dan watches as Gil carts the bloke, who is still kicking and screaming, off towards the van. Stifling a sigh, he turns to the demon. “You alright?”

The demon sniffs, and dabs ineffectually at his nose. Silently, Dan offers him a tissue. The demon hesitates, then takes it.

“Thank you.”

Dan shrugs. “You're welcome,” he says. “I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to accompany me back to the station to take a statement, Mr – ?” 

“Raum,” the demon says. “Just Raum.”

“Ok Raum, well when you're ready the station's just around the corner.” Dan smiles, trying to make himself look non-threatening.

“Why did you do it?” Raum asks, instead of starting to move. He frowns, as though trying to work something out. “Why did you stop him? Most huma – people, most people wouldn't.”

“Because it's the law,” Dan says gently. “We're all in this brave new world together, whether we like it or not. We have to get along, and part of that is recognising that nobody has the right to hurt anybody else any more.”

“Yeah,” Raum says thoughtfully. “I think the Beast would have a thing or two to say, if any of us cause problems again.”

The title is said in the hushed, respectful tones of a worshipper. Dan wishes he didn't understand the sentiment, but he sort of does.

Even now, no one can quite work out what caused the start of the War. Honestly, at this point Dan doubts anyone cares. One day, everyone had been going about their ordinary lives, and the next demons had been pouring from the earth, killing indiscriminately. The apocalypse, when it came, had been fast and terrible. There had been fire and blood and nobody had been safe.

And then there had been the Beast. Red-eyed and savage. There hadn't been an angel in sight to save anyone, but there had been the Antichrist.

Three weeks into hell on earth, Dan remembers the way the Beast had turned the tide. Rather than demons against humans, it had been demons against demons. The blood had been knee-high in places, and most people – most sensible people – had gotten the hell away from ground zero.

It had been – 

Raum gives a polite little cough. “Sorry,” he says, a bit apologetically. “But I, uh, have to ask...”

Dan blinks at him. “Ask?”

“Are you – that is, are you...”

With a sinking feeling, Dan realises what he's about to be asked. There is a hollow pit in his stomach as he keeps his face as neutral as he can. “Am I?”

“Are you Daniel Waters?” Raum says, in the same hushed tones that he'd said _the Beast_.

“No,” Dan says abruptly. “Never heard of him.”

God, he fucking hates Friday nights.

*

The thing is, when the world is ending in fire and blood there is only so much you can do.

You can run, of course. You can hide. You can pretend it's not happening, or pray to saints that don't listen to you. You can beg, borrow and steal. Barter with demons and hope to all that's holy that they don't want your soul.

Or, you can fight.

Dan is – was – _is_ good at fighting. Something instinctive and angry in him that occasionally needs that release. He tries his best to be a good man, but he's not always a nice one.

In the early days of the War – before the Beast; before people had got their acts together – Dan had tried to help. He hadn't always got it right, and he sure as shit wasn't perfect, but he'd tried. 

There'd been a group of kids, trapped in a supermarket. Silly little teenagers, who'd thought they could sneak out to try and grab supplies. They hadn't been hurting anyone, but they were daft enough to get caught by a pack of demons that had swept through the High Street. He'd helped them, because he had dug up a couple of crappy old blades, got them blessed by as many different holy men as he could find, and was looking to do some damage.

Then, he'd helped the next set of civilians.

And the next.

And the next.

And he hadn't stopped to wonder if there was a point to it, or what was going to happen to him when his luck eventually ran out.

One of the last images of the war, one of the worst, published in every fucking newspaper in the country, is of Dan half blind with blood and his blades buried in Abaddon's guts. It's a gruesome image, an unbelievable one. Even now he doesn't recognise himself in that feral, snarling creature.

After, the Beast had asked to see him. All Dan remembers is that he'd put down his blades and run a fucking mile.

Since then, he's never really stopped.

*

“I don't get it,” Hess says, sometime into his third week in the neighbourhood. He is sitting on Dan's sofa with his feet propped up, drinking a beer. “Why go back to the Met after all that happened?”

Dan shrugs. “Why not?” he asks. “Someone's got to help sort things out. Might as well be me.”

Hess grins. “Might as well get paid for it, too.”

“Amen to that.”

“Ooh, don't say that around Abi; she'll pitch a fit.”

“Your secretary is far too sensitive.”

“Don't call her a secretary either,” Hess advises. “Not if you want your liver to stay where it is.”

“I feel you should be a bit more concerned that Abi knows how to remove a man's liver,” Dan points out. He slumps back into the sofa and raises an eyebrow at Hess. “I'm pretty sure that speaks of past experience.”

“She's a demon, mate; what did you expect?”

“Maybe a little less pride in organ removal?”

Hess pulls a face that has Dan grinning. “Hey, it's not her job now.”

“You worry me, you know that?”

“I worry everyone,” Hess says. His smiles slips a little, and he can't quite look Dan in the eye. “Is it a problem?”

And it could be, if Dan's honest, but the thing is...

The thing is...

Dan has known Hess three weeks. Two days after Hess moved in, he'd come ambling up Dan's front garden, managed to get himself invited in for a cup of tea, and then sort of... stayed. 

Oh, he goes home, but he always comes back, and Dan's kind of used to it already. Kind of likes it, if he's honest with himself. The sight of Hess sprawled out on his sofa, long limbs every which way, hair falling in his eyes – it makes something lurch in Dan's chest.

And Abi is a part of that deal. She's someone Hess has to work with, and someone Dan has to see. She's a demon, but he doesn't know her, and he's trying really hard these days not to make assumptions about what people are like when he's not having to beat the shit out of them. _Brave new world_ , he has to remind himself, and only sometimes has to push away the burn that comes with it.

So he swallows, and shrugs. “Nah it's not a problem,” he says, just as Hess is starting to look really worried. “I mean, if she was gunning for my liver...”

There is a sudden shift in Hess's expression, there and gone so fast Dan is almost certain he imagined it. “She wouldn't dare,” he says. “If she touched one hair on your head, it would be her liver up for the crows.”

Dan takes a sip of his own beer. “Right, except I somehow doubt that would stop a demon.”

“Trust me,” Hess says, “it would.”

Dan looks at him. Looks at the slip-slide hint of darkness flickering in the lines of Hess's mouth; the slow uncurling of his fingers from around his bottle of beer. For a moment, he wonders what kind of man hires a demon he doesn't trust, to help him run a business. It takes a special kind of madness, sure, but Hess is sunshine-sweet and polite as all get-out. He's stupid early morning conversations as Dan is leaving for work, and late night stop overs, just to check everything is ok.

“You don't have to keep her if you don't want,” Dan says abruptly, and Hess jumps a little. “I mean, there must be other people you can employ.”

“There's no one quite as competent,” Hess says grimly. “Besides, she's not all bad.” He tilts his head in Dan's direction. “But I must admit, I thought you'd be more on the 'kill her if she annoys you' side of things.”

“That,” Dan says mock-stern, as Hess laughs at him, “is against the law. Are you asking an officer of the law to commit murder, Hess? Am I going to have to turn you in for incitement?”

“Isn't that prostitutes?” Hess asks, and pulls a face when Dan rolls his eyes. “Come on, you can't tell me you've never wanted to kill a demon.”

Dan can't help it. He knows Hess is only joking. He knows. But the jab hurts in the too-tender places in his soul that still dream about the things he did. “I've only ever wanted to kill anyone if they wanted to kill me first,” he says, too soft and too serious.

“Sorry, I didn't mean – ” 

“It's fine.” Dan puts his beer down carefully, clasps his hands together and looks at the floor. “I killed people,” he says at last. “Demons, mostly. I'm not proud of it. It's something I have to live with.”

“Hey,” Hess says. His hand lands on Dan's shoulder, warm and careful. “We all did what we had to.”

Dan tries to smile, feels his lips twist into something closer to a grimace and gives up. “Some of us more than others,” he says. “Here you are, trying to build the world back up by showing that working with demons is ok. And here I am, doing the same old thing I always did, just with more blood on my hands.”

“I'm not a saint,” Hess says carefully. “Dan, I – I really didn't –” He swears softly, and tries again. “You're not the only one who's not proud of what they did. You know that, right? I did a hell of a lot I don't want to own up to.”

Dan scrubs a hand across his face, shakes out of Hess's grip and tries to smile again. “I'm sure you did, pretty boy. What was it, stealing Pick 'n Mix from Asda?”

“Dan,” Hess says, and there is a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Dan holds up his hands. “It's ok,” he says, backing down. “I'm not trying to turn this into some kind of fucked up competition. Let's just forget it, alright?” He jerks his head at the telly. “Come on, find something decent on there.”

Hess frowns but ultimately relents. He starts hopping through the channels, until they land on something old and tired with explosions and fast cars.

Dan sinks back into the sofa again, pastes on a smile, and spends the rest of the night ignoring the way Hess is watching him.

*

Dan is standing in the kitchen one morning not too long after, when there is a sharp rap on the back door.

“You in?” Hess asks, sticking his head around the door.

“No.”

“Oh, good. I can steal your coffee.” He doesn't bother waiting for a protest – not that Dan was going to – just wanders on in and makes himself at home at the kitchen table. 

It's one of the rare days where sunlight is breaking through the clouds, and Dan hasn't got to be at work until lunchtime. He leans back against the kitchen counter and takes a sip of too-hot tea, watching as Hess helps himself to the pot of coffee that he's already got brewing.

In this light, winter-sunshine soft, Hess is a miracle. He's sleep-rumpled and still only half awake; sweet smile and petal-pink lips. The tips of his hair are ruffled out, chestnut threaded with gold, the soft licks of it going every which way and a halo of light around his head. Something rolling and warm burns in the pit of Dan's stomach as he studies this, and he can't quite flick his gaze away fast enough when Hess looks back. 

Dan's breath hitches. For a moment he wants to put his tea on the table; wants to slide onto Hess's lap, awkward and heavy, and feel the sleepy warmth of his skin. He wants to bury his fingers in the length of Hess's hair – too long and in need of a trim – and press their lips together because he can. He wants to –

_Blood and bone and completely mine_ , something says at the back of his mind. _Soul deep, sweet thing. Look at the way you glow._

He can't quite – 

He – 

Hess sips his coffee, smiles around the curve of the mug. He blinks slow and not quite there, as he stares at Dan.

“I don't – ” Dan says, around the strange tightness in his throat. “I don't know – ” 

“You will,” Hess says softly. “Just not yet.”

And Dan's mind slips sideways, not quite grasping – 

Hess looks touchable like this; accessible in a way he isn't normally when he's in jeans and shirts; all done up in the trappings of every day life. There is something soft and delicious about him here, now. It makes Dan want to crawl between the easy sprawl of his legs and just _worship_. It's a painfully familiar feeling that comes from nowhere, and Dan bites his lip against it.

“It looks like it might rain later,” Hess says. The dip of his lashes as he looks away from Dan is like a slap. The curve of his mouth seems suddenly sly; a challenge.

Dan licks his lips. Swallows. “Sunshine,” he says hoarsely. “It's going to be sunny.” His fingers are shaking where he is clutching his mug, and there is something telling him – 

There is – 

Hess drops his own mug on the table and stands. In the small space of the kitchen, he takes all the room out of Dan's head. “I've got to go,” he says. “Meetings, you know?” There is something in the way he is looking, though; some dark, ancient thing peering through the cracks of his smile, as he studies Dan. 

The hairs on the back of Dan's neck are standing up. _Danger_ , his hindbrain is screaming, and he doesn't know why.

Except he must be stupid. He must be really, really naïve, because he's leaning forward, setting his own mug down, and it's bringing him closer to Hess, not further away. “Work?”

Hess watches, tracing the line of Dan's throat with his eyes. “Work,” he agrees absent-mindedly. He's not even bothering to keep up with the conversation. There is a moment's hesitation, some strange internal struggle. Then something in him seems to splinter. 

“Can I just – I want – ” he stretches out; traces the tips of his fingers down Dan's neck and presses hard into the vulnerable dip of his collarbone.

Dan shivers, can't help himself. Dumb, animal fear, and he wants to bare his throat to it. “What are – ” 

“I promised,” Hess whispers. “I promised. But just this, alright? It'll be like it never happened.” He slides a step nearer, the pressure of his fingers hard and greedy. “It won't matter.”

Dan flails a hand out, catches on the warm cotton of Hess's t-shirt and fists his fingers in it. His head is swimming. Everything is too slow, syrup-sweet and numbing. “What won't matter?” he manages. “I don't understand.”

Hess soothes him, gentle and close. “Just this,” he says. “Just this. Some days it's worse, you know? It's been months. But if I can just – ” He tilts in slowly, as though he thinks Dan's going to run away.

The kiss shouldn't be a surprise, and it is. Hess's lips are warm, his mouth soft. He pushes close, one hand still curled around Dan's neck. His thumb is pressed up against Dan's pulse – can probably feel the way his heart is hammering – but it doesn't matter.

This is something Dan has half been expecting from the start, and hadn't realised until now. It's like some part of himself has been waiting for this: the inevitable fall. From the moment he saw Hess loping across the front garden, he's been counting down with no awareness of it. He's dizzy, light-headed and willing and terrified. 

He must make some small sound, some indication he wants this, because Hess sighs into his mouth, steals the breath from his lungs and bites, painfully tender on his lower lip. “Please,” he says, between one press of lips and the next. “Please, sweet thing. Just give me this.”

And Dan's never going to be able to say no to that, is he? That desperate plea in the bare space between them is irrefutable. He hadn't even thought to want this, and now he does.

Hess groans as Dan starts to kiss back. It's drugging, addictive. The movement of their mouths together is a strange kind of ritual. Dan's kissed before, he's not some shy virginal thing, but it's not been like this.

Never like this.

The slow slide of Hess's tongue has him pressing forwards in return. He laps at the line of Hess's mouth and feels those gorgeous lips part to let him in. The bite of Hess's fingers at his throat, against his side, are a beautiful burn.

“Dan,” Hess breathes out. “Sweet thing, I – ” his words trail off; get lost in the way Dan licks into him.

_You're ready_ , something is saying in Dan's head. _You want this, finally. You're going to –_

Dan tears himself away, breath rasping in his throat. “I'm going to what?” he asks. “What is this? What – ” 

The weight of Hess's body slams into him, pushing them both up against the kitchen counter. The long lines of his body are solid, heavy. He wedges himself between Dan's sprawled legs, bends his head down and kisses him again.

Dan can't help it. He widens his legs a little more, gets his hands on Hess's waist and pulls. The hot weight of Hess against him, hip to hip, has him shivering. He tilts his head back, can't breathe for the way Hess is kissing him, and his lungs are burning. Doesn't care.

This is what he wants. This is what he's always wanted. If he wasn't too stubborn to see it, he could have had this long ago. He could have had Hess, here, between his thighs, pressing close like he can claw them together into one being. He can feel Hess hard against his hip; wants to shift just slightly, angle them together because he can. To press even closer and just move.

No, more than that.

He wants Hess to pull him down, to get them on the floor. He wants to be pinned; wants them to rut together, until there's nothing left but skin and slick between them. Some hollow part of him aches with the thought. He wants teeth sinking into the nape of his neck; wants some animalistic, brutal claiming that will fill the void in him. He wants the weight of Hess's cock filling him up, hard and unrelenting and undeniable.

He – 

_You have no idea what I want_ , the Beast had said to him, tall and faintly amused as he watched Dan. _Did you think I only asked you here to say thank you? I didn't._

Except he's never met the Beast. 

He's never - 

“No,” Dan says. “ _No_.” He tries to shove Hess away, tries to put space between them, and this time Hess doesn't move.

“Ssh,” he says into Dan's mouth. “Ssh. I told you, nothing else. Not yet.” The fingers on Dan's neck squeeze once, in warning.

“I don't want this,” Dan says, rearing back. “You promised I – ” 

Hess grins, and this time there really is danger. Dan's mind, still sticky-slow, gibbers at the threat written in the tilt of Hess's head, the way his hips roll just once, pushing them closer together again. That darkness is there in the gleam of his eyes, the slow seep of red as he studies Dan's expression.

“I promised,” Hess says. “I keep my promises.” He dips his head, lips catching on the faint stubble at the curve of Dan's jaw. “But baby, for a moment there you wanted this.” He bites down, hard, and Dan shoves against the stingingly sweet pressure of teeth.

“Get off,” he says, then again when Hess doesn't move. “ _Off_.” He finds the vulnerable tendon in Hess's arm and presses down. “Off,” he repeats again, “or I'll make you.”

Hess licks over the bruise he's no doubt made, slow and rasping and enough to have Dan almost rethinking. “Do you promise?” he murmurs, achingly amused and not at all threatened. “I know you're fierce, but I don't think you'll win.”

“But I'll do some damage,” Dan snarls, teeth bared, and Hess sighs.

“Alright,” he says. “Not yet.” Slowly, reluctantly, he lets go, fingers sliding away as he takes two steps back.

After the heat of Hess's body, the cool air of the kitchen is a shock. Dan blinks once, straightens and squares his shoulders. “How the hell did I miss this?” he demands, to stop himself from pulling Hess back in. “How did I not know – ” 

“You don't need to know,” Hess says, the pretty line of his mouth set and stubborn. “Not yet.”

“Don't need to – ” Dan takes an involuntary step forward, realisation dawning. “No. Don't do this again. Don't you fucking dare – ”

*

He's got an hour left before he needs to leave for work, and honestly he doesn't know where the morning's gone.

Stepping out of the shower, Dan wraps a towel around his waist and scrubs a quick hand through his hair, brushing away water. His shoulders ache more than they should, as though he's been carrying tension around in them, and there's a vaguely dissatisfied hollow in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he's craving something, and he has no idea what.

Absently he picks up his razor, leaning across the sink to wipe away the steam that has fogged the mirror.

Hess had been in an odd mood when he left – slightly bemused and a little snappy. The strangeness of Hess's irritation prickles under Dan's skin. He wonders what the hell he's missing. He'll need to ask later. Maybe things aren't going so well with the business at the moment. Maybe he's just as tired as Dan feels.

Maybe – 

The razor slips from Dan's fingers, clattering into the sink. He ignores it, doesn't even bother to see if it's damaged as he leans close to the mirror again, fingers wiping frantically to clear it. He tilts his head, examining the familiar lines of his own face.

His eyes are there, wide and surprised in his reflection. The slightly crooked line of his nose and the shape of his mouth are all familiar to him. But there is a bruise at the hinge of his jaw. It's dark and purple and claiming, and the shape of someone's mouth.

And he has no idea how it got there.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a very long time, but these two wouldn't leave me alone. At last, here's chapter two! (And I'm so sorry for the wait.)

Friday nights in Trafalgar Square may be hell on earth, but Saturdays in Soho aren't much better.

It's only been two hours, and Dan's feet are already sore from pounding the streets. He's had to chase down two drunks already, and one of them had ended up crashing through a restaurant. That in itself is an offence, but unfortunately the idiot compounded it by not keeping his mouth shut. Five minutes of trying to wrestle him out the front door had resulted in a barrage of abuse.

“Three riders,” Ravneet says. She has her hands stuffed inside her stab vest as she surveys the street. She jerks her chin in the direction of one corner. “There.”

Her voice startles Dan out of his idle contemplation of a group of tourists. He turns in the direction she's looking, in time to see the riders shuffling deeper into a shop doorway.

“Think they're legit?”

Ravneet scoffs.”Behaving like that? If they're legit, I've turned to fencing diamonds in my spare time.” She sighs, sliding her hands out of her stab vest. “Come on, let's go have a chat.”

There is, Dan knows, an art to walking up to a suspect. It sometimes takes a slow, roundabout approach, so they don't clock you heading for them and leg it. Ambling, he's found, can be a very useful weapon.

They do exactly that, heading apparently aimlessly up Charing Cross Road, dodging couples and tourists and people out having a good time. It's busy; teaming with life in a way Dan knows he missed during the Before. It builds warmth in the pit of his stomach, that these people can go back to their lives – can find it in themselves to get drunk, to laugh, to enjoy and forget.

They've nearly reached the riders, when one of them looks around. It's wearing the body of a young woman – small and slim, with a sharp face.

“Shit,” it says.

“Evening,” Ravneet says comfortably. She smiles pleasantly. “Can I see your permits?”

“ _Shit_ ,” the rider says again. Its eyes roll in the direction of its two companions. “Why do you want to see my permit?”

“Just checking,” Dan says. “We noticed the three of you were looking a little lost earlier. We just want to make sure everything's alright.” He keeps his hands well away from his sides, his fingers open and loose.

“What if we don't have a permit?” one of the other riders asks, and its tone is angry; belligerent. “What're you going to do then?”

Ravneet sighs, and Dan feels like echoing her. “Then we have to take you into custody, sir.”

It sneers. “And do what?”

Ravneet doesn't so much as blink at its posturing. “Hand you over to the proper authorities, sir.”

A ripple runs through the little throng. Uneasily, Dan hears the low note of defiance in those mutterings. Carefully, he inches his hand closer to his pair of cuffs. There is something not right here; something off.

“The Beast,” the third rider spits, “does not hold authority over us.”

And _hell_ , this is a problem.

Riders are already a serious difficulty. During the War they ran unchecked, possessing and causing chaos. They're easy to spot – slightly too demon, in a human body – but stopping them is a nightmare. They can jump body to body, and if you've not got the right equipment, there's nothing to be done.

In the early days, Dan knows, they were nightmares often made flesh. Sliding under skin, they left nothing behind. Humans are only built to house one soul, and when a rider takes over, that's it.

Done. 

He remembers people losing loved ones – friends, family, lovers – only an empty husk left behind, when a rider was finished with the corpse.

After, the Beast had put a stop to this too. Now, there are only very specific circumstances when a rider can possess a body, and they need a permit. If there's no permit, they get turned over to demonic authority.

Dan's not sure what the punishment is for unauthorised riders, and he doesn't want to know. He's only met one, after the War, and he didn't stick around to find out what happened to it.

The Beast, he suspects, is not kind on those who break his laws.

“The Beast holds authority over all beings designated demonic,” Ravneet is saying, and Dan tilts his head to look at her. “It's part of the agreement.”

“Fuck the agreement,” the second rider says vehemently. “We don't bow before a false king.” It licks its lips, eyes narrowing as it considers the pair of them.

“Good little soldiers,” the third rider croons. “Still waging a war you don't understand.” It tilts its head, the slick black of its eyes considering. “Do you do what He tells you to?”

Carefully, Dan unhooks the cuffs from his belt. “We work for the Crown,” he says. “No one else.”

The third rider smiles, bloodless lips peeled back from its teeth. “Oh angel, oh duty, oh righteousness,” it simpers mockingly. “You work for Him, you just don't know it.”

Ravneet moves, and Dan is less than a heartbeat behind her. The cuffs burn a little in his hands, but they're supposed to. Holy silver, with every spell of binding the Met had been able to inscribe on them, and they're only used for cases like these.

The first rider scrambles back out of the way and into the corner. Dan ducks past it, getting a hand on the second rider's arm. The element of surprise lets him get one of the handcuffs on, before the thing elbows him hard in the stomach.

He doubles over, choking for breath, but instinct has him holding on to the other end of the cuffs, even as the creature takes another swing. He gulps down air, stays low, and rams his shoulder into the rider's ribcage.

“Get off!” it hisses at him, as they slam into the shop wall. “Leave now, and I might let you live.” Its snarl is a terrible rictus, hands curled into claws as its thin veneer of humanity wavers.

“I'm arresting you – ” Dan manages, before it's trying to sink its fingernails into his throat.

The scratch burns, and he can tell it's bleeding; can tell too, from the way the creature's beginning to shudder, that it thinks it's opened a pathway into him. That it can jump, savage his soul, and leave him a useless husk.

He gets a hand around its wrist, forcing its fingers back almost to the point of breaking. It screams, throat-shreddingly high, and tries to lunge at him, furious.

“I'm arresting you,” Dan begins again, as its shivers increase.

It grins at him, blood beginning to stain its teeth as it starts to tear itself free of its host. “You can try,” it hisses, sounding halfway towards smoke. “But you'll have to stop me first.”

The rider tenses, going rigid under his hands, and _fuck_ , this isn't how he wanted to do this. He needs to get the other cuff on now, before it slips its host and tries to take him over.

Dan twists the creature's arm, bending it behind its back. The cuffs swing from its other wrist, useless for the moment, as he tries to force the rider's hands together. It's like trying to bend iron, an inch at a time.

“Self-righteous honour,” it spits at him, and he can see it – the beginnings of itself curling like smog at the corners of its mouth, its eyes. “Defiant meat. Useless. Pathetic.” It tries to bring a knee up, to shove him away, but its control on the body is slipping, as it begins to leave.

“Stop,” Dan says, and it's a warning. He's nearly got the cuff on. Nearly. Nearly – 

The rider smiles, bloody and triumphant. “Goodbye,” it says.

It pushes forward, mouth pressing to the wound it's carved in Dan's neck. Blood against blood; an unholy sacrament as it starts to abandon its host.

“Don't – ” Dan manages.

The rider jerks back. Its scream is high-pitched. Terrified. Its lips are burnt, skin peeling as it slams itself back into its body. For a moment it stiffens in full, frozen horror.

“ _What did you do?_ ” it howls, wide-eyed and reeling.

Dan doesn't hesitate; he twists its arm higher, pushes its wrists together and snaps the cuffs closed. “Surprise,” he says grimly.

It doesn't even flinch at the holy silver, too busy gaping with wet, wounded eyes. “What did you do?” it repeats, pushing words from between blackened lips.

“Nicodemite bindings,” Dan says; he keeps his grip tight. “I warned you.”

“Nico – _bindings_?” the rider hisses. “You've got bindings?” It's staring at him, horrified. “Where?”

“Nowhere you want to see.”

The rider gapes. “You've bound yourself,” it says. “Into your own body. You've – ” 

“It wasn't that difficult,” Dan says absently. Now the cuffs are on, the rider is far less of a threat. He chances a look around, and sees Ravneet has wrestled her own suspect to the ground. The third rider is still huddled in the corner.

Unfortunately, they have also drawn a bit of a crowd. London is busy, and Charing Cross Road is a thoroughfare. A scuffle is bound to attract attention, and in this case it's definitely drawn interest.

Dan sighs. He turns the rider so he can hold onto it with one hand, and clicks on his radio. “Dispatch, this is CX two seven one.”

“ _Go ahead two seven one_.”

“I need an SO wagon on Charing Cross Road, three suspects in custody.”

There is a pause; he can hear static on the other end, and then the controller comes back. “ _SO wagon en route, ETA four minutes. Is further assistance required?_ ”

Dan glances at the other two riders. His own is still staring at him, something feverish and terrified in its expression. “Negative.”

“ _Understood_.”

Ravneet, still keeping a tight hold on her own suspect, raises an eyebrow. “They on their way?”

“Four minutes,” Dan says. He readjusts his grip, and jerks his head at the first rider, which is still huddled in the doorway. “What about him?”

“Please,” it whispers, eyes wide. “Please, I haven't caused any harm.”

“You haven't got a permit,” Dan says. He tightens his hold as his prisoner jerks a little. “I'm sorry.”

The first rider's mouth crumples a little. Why it hasn't fled, Dan has no idea, but it turns to look at Ravneet with the same terrified expression. “Don't take me to Him.”

“Sorry,” she says, and her tone is decidedly less sympathetic. “Those are the rules.” She glances at Dan. “Think you're able to cuff that one too?”

“No.”

“I won't run,” the first rider says. “I won't. I won't cause any trouble. I just – ” It's shaking, as it looks at Dan again. “You'll tell Him, won't you?”

There is unease crawling down Dan's spine; a prickle of understanding that he can't quite recognise. “Tell who what?”

“Him,” the rider says urgently. It stumbles forward a step, one hand outstretched. 

The rider Dan is hanging onto makes a small, contemptuous sound. “Of course he will,” it rasps. “You think any of the Bill wouldn't?”

“Strangely,” Dan says dryly, “the only person I'll be telling anything to is my Custody Sergeant.”

“No.” The first rider is shaking its head. “No, you'll tell Him. I won't be able to run. Or hide.” It lets out a low whimper. “Tell him I didn't fight, won't you? Tell Him I obeyed you.”

Against him, Dan feels the cuffed rider go still.

“No,” it says blankly, and he can't see its expression, but he can hear the urgency in its voice, low and thrumming. “No, it's not – ” 

The first rider stumbles forward, its hand still reaching out. Instinctively Dan takes a step back, towing his prisoner with him. “Alright, that's close enough.”

“He's marked,” it says to its companion, ignoring him. “Favour and blood.”

The cuffed rider shivers. “Don't say it.”

“He could have forgiven us,” the first rider whispers. Its skin is waxen under the light of the shop windows; the mouth of the body it's wearing is trembling. “Anything but this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dan asks. When he doesn't get a response, he twists his head to look at Ravneet. “Any ideas?”

She shrugs. Under her, the second rider has gone limp; Dan can hear it sobbing faintly. “No idea.”

“Oh angel, oh duty, oh righteousness,” the first rider says, and where before it was a mockery from its companion's lips, now it is gut wrenchingly sincere. “You'll tell Him; we can't stop you. So tell Him we're sorry too. Tell Him that.”

Dan's out of his depth. This isn't an ordinary arrest – it was never going to be with illegal riders – but this is worse. It's strange and incomprehensible, and he has no fucking clue what's going on.

“Who's 'he'?” 

The first rider doesn't answer the question. As the audible wail of a siren appears in the distance, and the windows of the street start to ricochet with blue lights, its hand snaps forward, faster than Dan can follow.

It reaches past its companion, ignoring the way Dan flinches, and presses gentle fingers to his neck.

It must be able to feel Dan's pulse hammering under its fingertips; sense the way he's holding himself still. Too many years of doing too many terrible things to creatures like this, and the memory of them is boiling under his skin. He can't breathe, chest tight, because his palms are itching for blades he doesn't have with him.

“Drop your hand,” he says, lips numb. 

Something in its expression crumples. “I'm sorry,” it says again. It presses its fingertips in harder for a moment, and he thinks it's talking about the wound its companion carved into his neck. 

But then its hand slips, blood itching and flaking under the pressure of its fingernails, and he remembers the bruise at the hinge of his jaw. The deep, dull ache of it.

“What is it?” he asks, in spite of himself.

“A promise,” the rider says, as the first car pulls up; its voice is barely audible under the noise of sirens, and booted feet running in their direction. “A threat.”

“By who?”

“Don't you know?” it asks, just as Dan catches sight of the first PC from the corner of his eye.

When Dan doesn't answer, doesn't move, it pulls its hand back. “You _don't_ know.”

“Know what?”

The riders opens its mouth. Shuts it. The PC gets hold of one of its arms, which are hanging limp by its side. It doesn't resist, doesn't even flinch at the cold snap of cuffs around its wrists. The rider Dan is holding whimpers, soft and shocked, as it watches.

“Be careful,” the first rider says, and it isn't even looking at the PC – hasn't even acknowledged he exists.

“Why?”

It stumbles a little at the heavy tug on its arm, when the PC tries to shepherd it to the waiting van. Its expression is serious as it digs its heels in, refusing to move.

“Because,” it says, “there are far worse things in the dark than us.”

*

After his week of nights, Dan has promised himself a full day of doing fuck all.

“You deserve it,” Hess says.

He's flat out on the floor of Dan's living room, long limbs sprawled everywhere, his hair a dark, scattered halo around his head. He grins up at Dan, wide and mischievous. He'd flung himself down there earlier when he'd come over, groaning theatrically about long working hours and last minute flight cancellations.

The telly is on in the background, the news droning mindlessly. Neither of them are paying attention to it, too washed out by the ends of their working weeks.

“'Deserve' has nothing to do with it,” Dan says. “I'm just bloody knackered.”

Hess groans theatrically. “It has everything to do with it. Wrestling criminals seven nights on the bounce is no one's idea of a good time.”

“Well, maybe it's mine.”

“If it was your idea of a good time, you wouldn't be so exhausted at the end of it.” At the look Dan shoots him, he shrugs. “It's true.”

“Perhaps I like doing something useful, did you think of that?”

The noise Hess makes is low; considering. “Now that I do believe.” He smiles, soft and a little fond. “If someone's got to save the world, I'm glad it's you.”

Dan leans back into the sofa with a sigh. He drops his head back to stare at the ceiling. “It's not about saving the world, Hess. I think you're putting far too much thought into this.”

A hand closes around his ankle and he startles upright again. When he looks down, Hess has shuffled sideways a little, curling long, warm fingers at the point where the hem of Dan's jeans meet the bare skin of his feet.

“Why do you do it then?” Hess asks, eyes serious. “If it makes you unhappy, why not do something else?”

“I'm not – I'm not unhappy,” Dan says. “That's not what I meant.”

“Isn't it?”

Something is warming in the pit of Dan's stomach; a low, gentle burn at the way the pads of Hess's fingers graze his anklebone, the line of his tendon. There's something concerned in the way Hess is looking at him; a little worried, perhaps.

“No.”

“Then what?”

For a long moment Dan thinks of two blades, bright and silver-sharp. He thinks of blood, hot and thick, sliding across his knuckles, and the way sometimes he was fast, but just not fast enough. Three bruising years, and he'll always carry it with him.

_It's atonement_ , he nearly says, thinking of building the world back up again. But that's not true. Not quite.

“It's familiar,” he says at last. “Necessary. It's helping.” That, at least, is true.

“There are other ways to help,” Hess says, thumb pressed into the hollow of Dan's ankle. He's making small, circular movements, firm and sweet. It makes heat slide under Dan's skin, in a way he isn't at all sure is reciprocated.

“Not like this.”

Slowly Hess sits up, his hand slipping away as he gets to his knees. “Dan.”

Dan looks at him, and he's – 

He's – 

He's a kid, really. He's a bloody kid. Must be three years younger than Dan, maybe four. In his twenties, with hair falling in his eyes and that wide, wild smile he has when something makes him really laugh. He's not been touched by the world in the same way yet; not had to deal with the cruelties that will strip the light from him.

And bloody hell, does Dan want to protect him from that.

He forgets sometimes, because Hess is that much taller, his shoulders that much broader. Long, coltish limbs and slim hips, but he's got the power to back it up, and it hides that softer side of him. 

Except.

Dan's not small, not delicate; he's strong-muscled and solid. But he knows it doesn't mean Hess couldn't do some damage, if he wanted to. It's not something he thinks on, often. Only sometimes, in the deepest recesses of his mind, when there's nothing else to focus on.

“Leave it,” he says quietly, throat tight, and watches the look in Hess's eyes darken. “It's not important, ok?”

The beautiful line of Hess's mouth flattens. It makes the warmth in Dan's stomach twist; sharpen. There's something ugly there, something shadowed. It should be terrifying.

It isn't.

“No,” Hess says, and the look in his eyes is changing. It makes the breath catch in Dan's throat, fingers spasming against his thigh as he watches the way Hess tilts forward a little.

It's not a surprise to know he's attracted to Hess; not a revelation. He's every fantasy, every want straight out of Dan's head. Self-assured in a way that makes Dan's heart slam against the cage of his ribs; powerful enough that he could be dangerous, if he wanted to be.

No, the surprise is that Dan can want at all.

After the – 

After.

After, he hadn't felt much of anything; hadn't wanted to. He still doesn't quite trust the world any more, in its broken, dilapidated glory. This brave new dawn is harder than the old one, and Dan's a different person. He's learnt that it's easier to not want anything, because why run the risk of his desires being stripped from him?

He realises he's been silent for too long, staring at the way Hess is watching him. He takes a sharp breath, feeling the push of his ribs, and goes to stand up.

“I'm going to get a cup of tea,” he says carefully. “Want one?”

Pressure on his thighs then, and he looks down, startled. Hands, firm and strong, sliding up the inseam of his jeans, and for a moment the image doesn't connect; doesn't wire right in his brain.

“No,” Hess says again.

He presses, hard, and Dan's knees part on demand, as though he's been waiting for that command, that pressure. It's instinctive; terrifying. He doesn't even bother to resist, as Hess shoulders his way between Dan's thighs, pushing closer. He tilts his head, up so he can look at Dan's expression.

“What are you doing?” Dan asks, because he can't help it; can't quite find it in himself to believe there is something to this.

“I want an answer,” Hess says, eyes dark. 

Dan leans down a little, curving over, forcing Hess to tilt backwards to keep eye contact. “You've had it.”

Those fingers dig in a little more. If he wasn't wearing jeans, Dan thinks, there'd likely be bruises.

The thought is dizzying.

He's known Hess four weeks. Maybe five. Too long, and not long enough. Hess knows, now, how he looks first thing in the morning and last thing at night. They've watched rubbish films together, and he's learned to fill Dan's sometimes-silences with inane small talk. They talk around Before, and he doesn't push Dan. Hasn't.

He has fitted into Dan's life with a terrible, terrifying ease.

“Tell me the truth,” Hess says, low and demanding. “Why this job? Why you?”

And Dan could tell him the truth. He could.

He could talk of murdering his way across two continents. Of blood and death, and trying to do the right thing. He could talk about the hatred he felt, then the weariness. He could talk about how he kept trying to save people, and how sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't.

He could tell Hess of the last time – the worst time – with Abaddon laughing, right up until he'd sunk his blades in so far, he was carving runes into its bones.

_Because the world is a terrible, ugly place_ , he could say, and this would be the truth. The whole truth. So help him, God. _And because people can be as bad as demons, but it doesn't mean you get to stop trying to help. Trying to save them._

_Because it's a duty and if I don't do it, who will?_

“Because I'm good at it,” he says instead, into the bare inches between them.

Hess tilts his head, considering. “You're lying,” he says, and the look on his face is anger, frustration; a petulant boy-king denied his demands. “Why are you lying to me? Why is it so important?”

“Why is it so important to you?” Dan counters.

“Because I want to know everything about you,” Hess says. “Everything. Every thought in your head, every moment of your life.” There is a hunger in his voice; a deep, vicious demand for satisfaction. The sound of it catches at the back of Dan's throat, stealing his air.

“I want,” Hess continues with slow, deliberate emphasis, “to know every part of you. All of it.” In the soft lamplight his eyes are gleaming. His grip on Dan's thighs hasn't wavered.

For a moment they watch one another. 

Dan, heart hammering, can't work out where this conversation has gone; where it is heading. This is ridiculous. There is attraction and interest, and then there is – 

_– cancelled at the last minute... meant to be meeting with the Trade Formation Delegation_ , the television announces in the background, and the noise, the normality, filters through the static in his head.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks quietly. “Why would you say that?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

_– international sources. The Beast has confirmed that negotiations will continue –_

“You've known me a month,” Dan says. “A month. Hess, this isn't normal. This is – ” 

“I want you,” Hess says, so gently it is a demand; diamond-clad and filtering into Dan's soul before he can stop it. “I will always want you. Don't you know that?” 

He slides a hand up, fingers catching on the soft cotton of Dan's t-shirt as he presses a palm, broad and warm, into the pounding of Dan's heartbeat. “Of course this isn't normal. Why would it be?”

There is a heat under Dan's breastbone; a deep burn fighting to get out. The utter stillness of Hess's expression as he watches him – the unwavering intent in his eyes – it's terrifying. It makes Dan feel stripped of himself, shocked open to the core.

“I wanted one evening,” he finds himself saying, and he can't quite work out why. “Just...one.”

“I know.”

“Just films, and bad jokes, and junk food. Pretending to be normal. Just that.”

“I know,” Hess says again. “We can still have that. Just give me something in return.”

He means the truth. 

He wants honesty, Dan can see it. Hess is ravenous for every scrap of Dan he can find. It's sickeningly familiar; a nagging buzz at the back of his skull. _We've been here before_ , something is saying.

The weight of Hess's hands shouldn't be familiar; the soft parting of his lips should be a dream and nothing more.

_I won't_ , Dan thinks without knowing why, and watches Hess's expression darken by degrees.

He can't give away pieces of himself. He won't be carved into strips, consumed by the hollow longing he can see written sharp across Hess's features. That is not who he is. He needs every part of himself, and _none of this makes sense_.

“Please,” Hess says. “Dan, please.”

It's slow, inexorable gravity as Dan tilts down further. Hess stays utterly still, watching. His eyes are wide and devastated; the colour of them is brown. Amber. Flecks of garnet in chestnut. They're beautiful, and Dan has to look away from them at the last moment – can't quite focus on them and remember what he's doing.

“This,” he says, against Hess's mouth. “Just this.”

The noise Hess makes as Dan kisses him is shattering. High and delicate, as though he can't quite believe it. His lips are soft, his mouth warm. He tastes faintly of coffee, as Dan slides a hand into his hair and licks his way into his mouth.

It's sweetly familiar; welcome in a way Dan can't describe.

It is a distraction.

Dan won't give him the truth; can't. There's something in him, deep and instinctive, that is gibbering in fear at the thought of handing Hess this. It's ridiculous, because why should it matter? Why should Hess care? They're friends. Neighbours. It's not like selling off parts of his soul – 

Hess's hands tighten. Push. He spreads Dan's thighs wider, until muscles start to protest. He's kissing back, slick and hungry, pressing up and close. His body slots against Dan's like an instinct; a prayer.

There are teeth, sharp against the swell of Dan's lower lip; a brief, stinging nip. The hurt is there and gone, soothed quickly.

This should feel like a distraction, Dan realises, as Hess sighs against him. It should feel like a deliberate ruse, because that was the intention.

Except it doesn't.

It feels as though he has given something away.

The curve of Hess's mouth against his own is a smile; the pressure of those hands is not a suggestion. Dan started this but, from the way Hess is beginning to kiss back, he may not get to finish it.

_You did this_ , something says. _You came to me, sweet thing_.

Dan pulls back, breathing hard. In the low light of the room, Hess's lips gleam, slick and sweet. He's still watching Dan – did he even close his eyes? – and he's strangely devastated.

“Is that what you're giving me?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You have to be sure.” He slides a hand higher up Dan's leg.

The burn in the pit of Dan's stomach is getting hotter, brighter. Awareness of the weight of Hess between his legs is a wonderful thing. It sets a hollow ache in his bones, a strange longing he can't describe.

“I – ” he begins, and chokes on his own words, as Hess palms the length of his cock through his jeans.

He's getting hard, he realises, horror and embarrassment chasing each other. One kiss and he's becoming base instinct. The heel of Hess's hand pushes against him, and he can't help the way he moves with it.

“Do you want this?” Hess asks, intent.

Dan can feel the question through the marrow of himself; down to the tips of his fingers, which are still buried in Hess's hair. There's something behind it; something he hasn't quite worked out.

He's always been a suspicious bastard, he can't help it. Even breathless, with want holding him tight, he knows this isn't right. There's something else at work here, there must be. 

Hess is a neighbour, a friend. He's someone to have a laugh with. He – 

He kisses Dan like he already knows how to do it; like he dreams of it, sometimes. He's watching Dan like he can prise the secrets from his soul, and can't think of anything he wants to know more.

This isn't normal.

This isn't – 

Hess leans up, until his lips are barely touching Dan's. His hand doesn't move, and they're both aware of what he's doing.

“Do you want this?” he repeats, and every word is a kiss, brushing Dan's mouth.

Dan does, is the worst of it. His head's scrambled, his body aching with need, and still every instinct in him is screaming that he's missing something; that there's danger. 

And in spite of that, all he can think of is Hess's hand. Hess's mouth.

He could push up, just a little; rut down. He could pull Hess closer; tug the line of that t-shirt aside and press his lips to the warm, sweet skin of Hess's collarbone. He could mark it, with lips and teeth and tongue. He could let Hess thumb open the button on his jeans; could do the same in return and let Hess fuck his fist.

_I want it_ , he doesn't say, and feels something lock up inside him; frozen at the thought.

“No,” he says, and feels Hess sigh against him. “No, I – ” 

“I can't wait forever,” Hess says softly; a promise and a threat. “Don't make me.”

“Hess – ” 

The telly is on in the background, the news droning on mindlessly.

Dan blinks, then blinks again. His head's pounding, his hands shaking. He's sitting on the sofa and Hess is sprawled on the floor, watching him.

“What – ” 

“You dozed off,” Hess says cheerfully. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” The stretch of his limbs is comfortable as he lounges across Dan's carpet, his expression amused. “I think the night shifts have finally caught up with you.”

“Christ,” Dan says. “I'm so sorry.” His throat feels thick, his lips bruised and strangely tender. He must have just keeled over the moment he sat down.

“It's fine,” Hess says, and he's still watching him. “Why don't we put a crappy film on, and order a pizza?”

“You lifesaver,” Dan says gratefully. “It's like you read my mind.”

Hess smiles up at him. From this angle the line of his mouth is slanted; devious. “One of my many talents.”

Dan gets to his feet. He stretches, back stiff, and groans at the slow release of muscles. “You'll have to teach me sometime.” He holds out his hand and Hess takes it, allowing himself to be pulled off the floor.

For a moment Dan's attention is caught, held by the strangely familiar breadth of Hess's palm; the warm length of his fingers. It's oddly specific; a certainty that he's felt them before. There's the sense-memory of fingertips, digging into the meat of his thigh.

_Wishful thinking_ , he notes dryly, and lets go.

*

_The field is familiar; vast stretches of barren grassland under an endless, yellow sky._

_He's been here before. He's always been here before. He returns here, and returns here, and returns here, because he will always carry this moment in him._

_The Beast is beautiful, is the first thing he always realises. Chestnut-ruffled hair and a wide, generous mouth. White shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and the width of his shoulders a glorious stretch. Long-limbed and lovely._

_Last time – all the times – there were corpses, just like on the first day. It had been the end of the battle, blood-soaked and dangerous. He remembers the way they had to prise the hilts of his swords from stiffened fingers, because he'd killed so much his hands had gone numb._

_But this time there is none of that._

_This time, there is only this:_

_“Tell me,” the Beast says. He takes a step forward, then another, too fast to track. He has one hand on Dan's neck, a thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw. “Who did this to you?”_

_He's not talking about the bruise._

_Even here, even now, the cut stings. If Dan were to look down, he's sure he'd see blood. The line of it slices through the bruise like an erasure._

_“No idea,” he says, and they both know it's a lie._

_“You can tell me and I'll kill them quickly,” the Beast says. “Or you can lie, and I will tear them apart atom by atom when I find them.” He tilts his head. “Your choice.”_

_His fingers are gentle; a comforting lie. Earlier, he hadn't touched Dan's neck – hadn't so much as glanced at the bruise, or at the cut. It hadn't been hidden – Dan's hair's cropped too short for that – it had been utterly and deliberately ignored._

_“I'm not telling you,” Dan says, and overhead the weak light flickers and sickens, darkening under the Beast's displeasure. “That's not how this works.”_

_“It could be.”_

_“It couldn't, or you would have just taken what you wanted by now.”_

_The corners of the Beast's mouth tug upwards, rueful. “Alright, that's true.”_

_The mud oozes beneath Dan's boots as he shifts, trying to move away from the steady pressure of those fingers. “Glad we agree.”_

_The Beast presses hard, making the cut sting, the bruise burn. There is an odd, feverish light in his eyes and he's still smiling. “It doesn't matter,” he says. “In the end, they'll be coming to me anyway. We both know it.”_

_“You don't have to kill them,” Dan says._

_The Beast drops his hand and shrugs, apologetic. “Sweet thing, I really do.”_

_Dan thinks of this field – this blood-soaked, mud-churned mess of a field. He thinks of smoke pouring from the funeral pyres after, and how the Beast hadn't had so much as a speck of dirt to mar his suit, when Dan had met him with gore-caked hands._

_That had changed though, when Dan had smeared bloody fingerprints all over the length of his throat; the column of his spine._

_“It doesn't matter how many people you murder, I'm not going to say yes. What you're asking isn't what you want. Not really.”_

_The Beast blinks, slow and amused. “You have no idea what I want.”_

_It's an echo; a still-plucked chord, humming in Dan's soul. Always, they come back to this. Always, this is the promise._

_“Then tell me,” Dan says._

_The Beast smiles, handsome and bright in a way that makes Dan's eyes hurt to look at him. His hands are in his pockets as he studies Dan's expression, and he's far too pleased with himself. “Not yet.”_

_Dan breathes out slowly, frustration under his skin and that same, unnerving awareness as the first time. “Then when?”_

_The Beast shrugs. “You kissed me today,” he says. “It'll be soon, I think.”_

_And this is off-script. This is something Dan hasn't had from him before._

_“I kissed you,” he repeats, numb. “I – ”_

_The field is familiar; the sky is familiar; the creature in front of him is painfully, achingly familiar. Everything about this is known: a well-worn cycle._

_Except for this._

_“No,” Dan says, and he's said that already today, hasn't he? He'd said it this afternoon, with tongue and lips and teeth. He'd put a hand on the Beast's shoulder and pushed him away, except it wasn't the Beast, it was –_

*

He lurches up with a start, heart hammering.

He's in his room.

It's pitch black: no lights, no moonlight coming through the window. He's sweating and shaking, and he can't recall the dream already. It's making his head pound, just trying.

There's no noise, only silence, but Dan can't quite shake the feeling he's not alone. His skin prickles as he strains to hear over the sound of his own breathing. 

He can't make anything out.

_There are worse things_ , he remembers uneasily, irrationally, _than demons that live in the dark._


End file.
